


smoking cigars and throwing shoes

by astrangepurplefairy



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, davey and Jack is just implied, everyone But Race Spot and Albert are just mentioned, race has implied anxiety, race loves cigars, race throws shoes, right after jack’s ‘betrayal’, spot is soft, sprace, sprace fluff, this is a throwaway fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 14:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19993519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangepurplefairy/pseuds/astrangepurplefairy
Summary: spot finds race on the fire escape after the rally





	smoking cigars and throwing shoes

**Author's Note:**

> sooo this is a throwaway fic i wrote really quickly at a high key 4 am  
> sooooo  
> enjoy!

Race could’ve screamed.

Backstabber. Sellout.  _Scab._

Jack Kelly was a liar.

Thank God that Elmer and Mush had managed to wrangle the littles into bed and were distracting the other boys with a quiet game of poker, because—second in command or no—Race had been crouching on the fire escape for hours, hands over his mouth as his eyes raked across the city skyline.

Jack had sold out to Pulitzer and then disappeared into his penthouse with Katherine, hiding away. Which is probably lucky for Race, in all honesty, because Jack is the only one who knows the fire escape is Race’s  _spot,_ and he does not feel like being bothered today. It’s where he comes to smoke, to think, to be angry and be stupid and be sad. It’s just his place.

Today, he’s thinking about Jack. He’s thinking about the way Jack had swung around on Les, pure fury and something like desperation in his gaze. He’s thinking about Davey’s heartbroken face, about the way he’d just  _stood there,_ staring disbelievingly. Like his world had been crashing down around him.

He’s thinking about Spot Conlon practically pushing Jack over, tan face flushed with anger and lips curled back in disgust.

Race likes going to Brooklyn for poker every Thursday, likes hanging out with guys who tease him for ‘havin’ it all’ because he lives in Manhattan. He’s not a stranger to the king of the borough, they’ve interacted a handful of times, but it’s not like they’re best friends and all that. Spot doesn’t seem too frightening to Race, never has. He’s never acted scary, just respected. More than a few of the Brooklyn boys like to tease and say Spot’s soft on him, though Race doesn’t see how he possibly could be, considering they don’t talk, but it’s nice to imagine. And if Race notices Spot’s smirk during a game—when his head is tilted towards his cards and his hair is falling into his deep, dark eyes—and thinks he’s something close to beautiful? Well, that’s nobody’s business anyway.

But Spot had been scary tonight. He had slipped into some semblance of terrifying that Race had never seen before, that had never been directed at the Brooklyn newsies and never been directed at Race himself.

If Spot looked at all of his enemies like that, Race could understand why everyone thought him to be petrifying.

The window slides open, and he wants to turn around and shove his burning cigar into Jack’s face.

He takes a drag from it, instead, and spits, “Get t’ fuck outta here,  _Cowboy_.”

“Take a breath, ‘Hattan, I ain’t your leader.”

Race turns to see Spot Conlon pulling himself through the window and feels his anger fade, replaced by something fluttery and entirely embarrassing. 

“What’re you doin’ here?” Race said gruffly, and took another drag, exhaling the smoke through his nose and watching it dissipate.

Spot sits down beside him, plucks the cigar from his fingers, and puts his mouth to the end. The embers on the opposite side flare and brighten as he inhales, and he breathes it out in a perfect smoke ring that holds it’s shape for longer than it should. Race just watches, enamored.

Spot hands the cigar back. “I stuck around, thought I’d give Kelly a beatin’ if I saw him.”

Race glances towards the horizon, the place where the sun just sank, so he doesn’t look at Spot’s profile. “He’s up in his penthouse with Kath, if you wanna go soak him for da both of us.”

“They soft on each other?”

Race huffs a laugh. “Nah, not with Davey ‘round for Jack to gawk at.”

“Kelly’s gotta have ‘em all, don’ he?” Spot chuckled, just barely.

“I think he was serious on Davey. But I don’t think Davey’s so serious on him, not anymore.” Race says, voice darkening with each word.

Spot’s eyes are on the side of his face. “Youse mad.”

Race laughed dryly. “Ain’t you?”

“I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout me, I’se talkin’ ‘bout you.”

“‘Course I is mad!” Race says sharply, and takes a deep inhale of smoke to calm his pounding heart, to still the shaking of his hands. His blood feels like icy sludge in his veins, inching its way through his body like people dragging themselves into dead summer heat. “He don’ do nothin’ to warn us, is all for it one day and against it da next, all ‘cause Pulitzer fuckin’ paid him out.” He snarls.

“Calm down, Racer.”

“I don’ wanna _calm down_ , Conlon.” Race bites, practically bearing his teeth like some feral dog, but he drags a hand through his hair and tries to keep his cool. That’s what Race is all about, after all. Keeping cool, building the wall brick by brick, shoving everything inside so he doesn’t scream or rake his nails along his arms until there’s blood or cry so hard he can’t breathe and he passes out. Keep it cool, keep it cool. Calm. “It don’ matter anyway.” He huffs finally.

Spot snorts. “We don’ gotta talk ‘bout it, Higgins, but it matters.”

Race looks to Spot and finds his brown eyes already trained on his face. “Would you eva’ sell out ya boys like that?” He says darkly. Spot is silent, and Race nods. “Didn’ think so. I looked up t’ Jack Kelly, and now he’s jus’ some no name sellout wit’ a stupid dream of Santa Fe and some dirty cash to get him there. He could go, for all I care. I don’ neva’ wanna see him again.”

Spot studies Race’s eyes, and then shakes his head and takes the cigar again. “Youse lyin’.” He says plainly, taking a long drag and exhaling it impossibly slow. Race recoils and glares at him. “You care ‘bout Kelly, think o’ him like some big brudda you ain’t eva’ had. The fact that he lied is tearin’ you apart.”

He’s right. Race wishes he could lie, say he didn’t feel all of that, but there’s something about Spot that makes lying to him impossible. Maybe it’s because he’s already seen through Race’s fibs twice tonight. He takes a breath. “How’dja get all that?”

Spot shrugs. “You got no poker face, ‘Hattan.”

“I got no poker face, or you know where to look to see my tells?” Race challenges. It’s a subtle comment, risky if Spot catches on and useless if he doesn’t. But Race is tired, and angry, and pent up, and the Brooklyn boys’ words about Spot being soft on him keep swirling around his head like some demented carousel.

Spot looks at him for a long moment, as if thinking over his response, and then he breathes, “I been watchin’ you.”

_Damn._

“Why’s that?” Race asks.

A shrug. “Youse interestin’. You hide all your emotions like they ain’t worth it, and you’re always cool, even if it’s some bullshit façade. Some things make you tick, though. Like when someone’s laughing too loud, too close, or when someone just talks and talks, too fast for you t’ keep up. You look around as if someone else’ll be able t’ tell ya, but seem to hate that you gotta look around.” Spot takes a breath and Race’s heart is in his stomach. “I’se jus’ tryin’ t’ figure you out.”

“Don’ bother.” Race said gruffly, and looked back towards the skyline, inhaling smoke mercilessly, until his chest stops pounding and his fingers stop wanting to curl up and dig his fingernails into his palms.

They sit in silence for a long moment, passing the cigar back and forth, and Spot doesn’t speak for so long that Race is sure he isn’t going to. And then, “Youse an interestin’ challenge to take on, ‘Hattan.”

Race looks to him, raising one eyebrow in some attempt to seem unruffled. “You sayin’ you been tryin’ to crack the code, Spottie?”

Spot laughs, and his brown eyes burn as they stare into Race’s. “I’se sayin’ I been watchin’ you a lot longer than you been watchin’ me.”

Race inhales and takes the jump. “I been watchin’ you for quite a while.”

Spot smirks, takes Race’s cigar, raises it to his mouth.

“Ain’t that good news.”

Race chews on his lip and then laughs. “You going soft, King of Brooklyn?”

“‘S hard to go soft when you was always soft on a person.” Spot says frankly, glancing at Race out of the corner of his eye.

Race holds back a smile. “So what your boys say is true.”

“Depends on what they’s sayin’.” 

He bumps his shoulder against Spot’s, and exhales in relief when Spot laughs. “That youse sweet on me.”

“I ain’t sweet on no one.” Spot says, with sudden mock-darkness, but then he breaks into a teasing smirk. “But you sure drive me up the wall.”

Race flicks the last of his cigar off the fire escape and sits cross-legged, facing Spot. “That good or bad?”

Spot looks at him, cocks his head like a dog. “Depends on which one you’d rather.” He says after a moment, raising one brow.

“Good.” Race says firmly, nodding. “Definitely good.”

Spot gets a glint in his eye, and Race realizes suddenly he’s dangerous for an entirely separate reason than the way everyone else thinks. “Good it is.” He says, grinning.

Spot grabs Race by the back of the neck and tugs him close, pressing their mouths together with the force of two stars colliding. Race makes a soft sound, thanking God that Spot closed the window behind him and that the fire escape is dark and out of direct view as he eagerly moves his mouth against the King of Brooklyn’s. Spot kisses like a dance, ebbing and flowing, giving and taking, all soft lips and tight fingers, still body and roaming hands.

Race makes a surprised sound when Spot drags him into his lap by the waistband of his trousers, accidentally unsnapping one of his suspenders in the process. Not that Race thinks much of it when his hands are cupping Spot’s face and Spot’s grip is tight on his hips, thumbs pressed into his the hollow of his hipbones. Spot ran his tongue along Race’s bottom lip, smokey breath skidding between their mouths. Race lets their lips brush and press together, and his hands slid into Spot’s hair, fisting and tugging it.

Race was the one to pull away first, after elongated minutes of swollen, red mouths moving together and hickeys deposited on his neck made him breathless and giddy. He looked down to Spot, who’s eyes were still closed, eyebrows raised like he was alarmed by something, his palms pressed flat on Race’s back.

“ _Gesú cazzo Cristo, merda santa, potrei farlo per anni.”_ Race breathed desperately.

Spot didn’t open his eyes. “I hope whatever you’re saying is good.” He said slowly, like he was utterly disbelieving and blissed-out.

“Open your eyes.” Race whispered, resting his brow on Spot’s.

Spot’s hands ran softly up his spine, curling around his shoulders, and he shook his head. “What if it’s a dream?”

Race snorted and blushed. “You really are soft.”

“I ain’t soft.” Spot said, and opened his eyes. His pupils were dilated widely, and seemed to get larger when he took in Race’s flushed, freckled face.

Race just grinned at him and looked up at the darkened sky. “It’s getting late.” He whispered.

“Think you could sneak me in?”

Race rolled his eyes. “I don’ got my own room like you do, Mr. King of Brooklyn.”

Spot shrugged. “So? None of this lot care ‘bout that, ‘specially if Jack’s hot on Davey.”

“Most people is paired up, yeah, but that don’ mean I won’ neva’ hear the end of it if I drag you int’ my bunk at this hour.” Race explains, and tries to hold back giggles.

He fails when Spot pouts mockingly, like a hungry puppy. “C’mon, Higgins, wouldja live a little?”

Race, as if to prove a point, grabs the back of Spot’s head and crushes their mouths together once more, firm and heated and wild. Spot’s panting when Race pulls away, irises swallowed by his pupils, and stares incredulously when Race stands.

He extends a hand. “Get your ass up.” He says with a victorious little smile, heaving Spot up and leaving their fingers intertwined. “‘S too dark for you to cross the bridge, anyway.” He fixes Spot with a knowing grin.

When they enter the lodging house, there’s a moment of disbelieving silence followed by cacophonous whoops and cheers, but Race just flips them all off and drags Spot to the bunk on the far side of the room, a bit secluded from everyone else, blowing out the candle as they lay down in his bed.

“Get that Brooklyn tail, Racer!” A teasing Albert calls.

Race grabs his shoe from the floor, aims for only a millisecond, and chucks it, and based on the sharp yell of, “ _Shit!_ ” and the wave of loud laughs that follows, he’s hit his target.

Spot hides his face in Race’s shoulder to hide his laughter, and Race slings an arm around his waist.

**Author's Note:**

> race doesn’t throw hands he throws shoes  
> sprace is my otp  
> kudos and comments if you enjoyed??  
> love y’all  
> <333


End file.
